The Riptide Ultra-Glide (23 page)

“Told you. Our ship's come in,” said Pat, watching someone ride a beer cooler down the sidewalk. “Nothing else can go wrong.”

They trudged through sand again and laid out the Packers blanket.

The sound of screaming from the water.

Bar turned. “What the—”

A man splashed out of the surf and onto the beach, eyes swollen shut, hands rubbing his skin raw. On his chest, blotchy, bright red jellyfish stings in the shape of two large palm prints. He took off blind and crashed headfirst into the side of a lifeguard stand. Then he got up again and sprinted across the sand toward the McDougalls.

Just before reaching their blanket, he was tackled by paramedics from the beach patrol. A lifeguard ran up and cracked open a first-aid kit.

“What's the matter with him?” asked Bar.

“Only got stung by jellyfish,” said the lifeguard. “Hurts at first, but it's nothing. He'll be fine.”

A crowd of onlookers gathered around. “Is there any way we can help? We're from Pennsylvania.”

“I got it,” said the lifeguard. A few more minutes of work. “There. Almost good as new.”

“But the beach
is
safe?” asked Pat. “We can go swimming, right?”

“Oh, absolutely. That guy probably got tagged by a stray.”

“Very rare,” added one of the paramedics. “Please enjoy yourselves.”

They loaded the victim into the beach-patrol cart and drove him backstage.

Bar rubbed Coppertone down her left arm. “Pat, what are you doing?”

Pat was digging a hole in the sand. “Burying my wallet and marking the spot with my shoe.”

Then they stopped and looked at each other. All the built-up psychotic tension broke loose in boomerang reaction: Giddy smiles broke out. Bar took off running and laughing, and Pat chased her into the water, until she let herself be caught. They splashed over sideways in each other's arms, then slowly waded out as they had the day before, but remembering to check first for any unusually strong extra currents. They sank neck-deep, romantic privacy.

Bar nuzzled him from behind. “Sorry about back at the motel. We're really going to enjoy the rest of this week together.”

“Me, too. I love you so much.”

Bar swung around in front of him. Hands dropped from his neck and into the water.

“What are you doing?” asked Pat.

Her mischievous smile returned. “I'm not doing anything . . .”

Pat glanced around again to see if anyone was looking. His expression changed. “Oh, man, don't you just hate people who litter?”

“What brought that up?” asked Bar.

“I can't believe it.” He pointed. “This is such pristine nature, and jerks still have to dump their garbage on the rest of us.”

“What is it?”

“Looks like a sandwich baggie someone tossed off a boat or something.”

The compulsively responsible environmentalists in them took over. “We should pitch in,” said Bar.

Pat let go of his wife. “Hold on a second. I'll just stick it in the pocket of my trunks and throw it in a garbage can when we get back on shore.”

“Must be one of the Ziploc baggies,” said Bar. “Still got air in it and floating . . .”

Five minutes later:

“Ahhhhh! Ahhhhh! Jesus! . . .”

“Just hold still,” one of the paramedics told Patrick, lying flat on his beach blanket. “And keep your eyes closed while I dab this.”

Bar crouched over in concern. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Good as new in no time, except it'll leave some nasty-looking marks for a bit.” The lifeguard handed the paramedic another swab. “But why would he deliberately pick up a jellyfish?”

“We thought it was a baggie,” said Bar.

“We're from Wisconsin,” said Pat.

They finished patching him up. “You can use vinegar,” said the lifeguard, snapping the first-aid box shut. “But not freshwater, which could release more toxins . . . Unfortunately it's a little worse than usual because your face was already completely peeled from a sunburn.”

Pat sat up on the blanket, and Bar consoled him with a gentle hand on his unaffected shoulder. “Honey, I'm so sorry. I should have yelled ‘jellyfish' earlier.”

“It's not your fault.” Pat turned to her with one eye swollen closed like a baseball. “How does my face look?”

She pretended he didn't have a dozen cherry-red stripes across his cheek, forehead and left ear, where the tentacles had slapped his face when he spazzed out in the water.

“Handsome as ever.”

Pat scanned the ground near their blanket. “Where are my shoes?”

“I stacked them over there by the bag. The paramedics needed to clear some space when they laid you out.”

“Oh jeez, no . . .”

“Pat, your shoes are still here. I just told you.”

He got on his hands and knees and began flinging sand between his legs like a golden retriever.

“What's going on?” asked Bar.

Pat eventually stood up in the middle of what looked like a bombing range. Twenty holes of varying depth. His head sank. In defeat: “My wallet . . .”

The lifeguard suddenly raised his megaphone toward two people way out in the surf. “Riptide! Swim parallel to shore!”

“We know! . . .”
yelled a faint voice from far beyond the swim area.
“Woooooo! Ultra-Glide! . . .”

The lifeguard saw something else and yelled into his megaphone. “Shark!”

In the distance, a fist splashed down hard.
“Thanks, got him . . . Riptide! Woooooo! . . .”

Barbara tried consoling her husband by stroking the back of his head. “Honey, it's just a wallet, material possessions. If there's one thing that this week has taught us, it's to put things in perspective. Our lives are perfect.”

A ring tone from their beach bag: “Blowing in the Wind.”

“I got it,” said Pat. He flipped the phone open. “Hello?”

“I want my fucking cocaine! Don't think you fooled me with that couple in the Oasis Inn, and don't think you can get away!”

A cell phone fell in the sand.

Chapter Twenty-four

ACROSS TOWN

A
Dodge Durango parked outside a motel room near Sunrise Boulevard. Next to it sat a horse trailer that was empty except for some hay and the blankets. The motel sign had a pirate resting a boot on an overflowing treasure chest. The pirate's hat had a lot of bird shit.

Inside room number two, Catfish Stump unzipped a common piece of carry-on luggage.

Someone over his shoulder: “So that's what a hundred and fifty grand looks like.”

“Not for your amusement.” Catfish zipped it closed and sat quietly on the end of a bed, staring in thought at the wall. The wall had a beach painting, but there were no people in the picture. Just a radiant sunset that cast an orange glow on foaming waves. Four people were sitting just to the left of the picture when it was painted. They had objected when they noticed the artist painting them, and made him move over.

“How'd you get the money so fast?” asked his top lieutenant.

“Had Bing wire it to me from Versailles.”

“But I thought we were going to wait and sell the front product back in Kentucky, and then return.”

Catfish shook his head. “Sign of weakness if we take the crumbs he throws us just to peddle and fork over the profits. I want to be done with this stupid deal. Clean break. Then we start fresh on an equal plane and see if this fucker can be trusted . . .” His voice trailed off in distraction.

“What are you thinking about?” asked the lieutenant.

Catfish closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Whether to go through with this fool's errand.”

“You don't trust them?”

“That's a given.” Catfish stood up. “The question is
how
I don't trust them. The most obvious: an outright rip-off.”

“But he said he needed you for future business.”

“Please. You know how many other hillbillies are waiting in line? They need us like a third tit.” Catfish picked up the suitcase and idly gauged its weight. “Then there was that body found in the drainage canal south of Okeechobee.”

“What body?”

“It made the papers. José Medina, numerous pain-clinic arrests. But it didn't mention any convictions. That means he was cooperating.”

“Looks like Gaspar shut him up for good,” said the lieutenant.

“Maybe,” said Catfish. “Or maybe something else. Maybe his tips to intercept our trucks weren't so anonymous. We could be walking into a sting . . . On the other hand, it could be totally legit. That's three outcomes, and two are bad.”

“So let's not go,” said the subordinate.

“There's always a fourth outcome.” Catfish pulled a Beretta nine-millimeter pistol from under his shirt and checked the chamber. “We could always rip
him
off.”

“But you always said you'd never rip anyone off in a deal. That a man's word was everything.”

“It is.” Catfish tucked the pistol back in his pants. “But this already is our shit—they ripped it off from us. The main question is, what benefits them more: us as customers, or eliminated competition?”

The subordinate checked his watch. “It's two thirty. Shouldn't we be going?”

Catfish nodded and turned toward the rest of the room. “Okay, all you swingin' dicks, look like you got some. This could be a live one.”

Clicking mechanical sounds from a variety of weapon activity, loading bullets and clips, racking slides. They headed out the door and down the stairs toward the Durango. The lieutenant trotted behind Catfish. “So what's your decision?”

“Haven't made it yet.”

* * *

F
our Jeeps with fog-light racks sat in front of a bright white motel with turquoise trim.

In a second-floor window, curtains parted slightly. Then closed again.

“Stay away from the window and stop pacing,” said Gaspar Arroyo. “You're getting on my nerves.”

“You think they came up with one-fifty?” asked a goon lugging a MAC-10.

“Who knows?” said Gaspar, sitting on the far side of the room and puffing a thick cigar.

“You don't seem so sure of these guys.”

“I'm not,” said Gaspar. “It's a little suspicious they suddenly call and say they already have the money, without even going back to Kentucky.”

“What do you think they're up to?”

“Could be a rip-off,” said Gaspar. “We put the arm on them, so they kill two birds with one rock: get the Oxy for free, and eliminate a middleman who's standing between them and doing direct business with the clinics again.”

“But you said they were a pushover. Our guys could squash them at any time like bugs.”

“Did some additional checking,” said Gaspar. “These hombres got tougher hides than I thought. Some enemies of theirs are missing up north. I'd say we're about evenly matched. They call them the Kentucky Mafia.”

“Who calls them that?”

“It was in the newspaper,” said Gaspar. “So it must be true.”

“Do we plan like they're coming to boost us?”

“Unless it's a sting,” said Gaspar. “Did you see TV last night? Some kids in Ocala were playing in the woods with their dog, and it dug up a shallow grave. Identified the body as Gooch Spivey.”

“Who's that?”

“Catfish's former right-hand man,” said Gaspar. “The reporter mentioned several possession-with-intent arrests. That's a dime in the pen minimum, yet he was out breathing free air. Which can only mean he was a confidential informant.”

“That's probably why Catfish had him iced.”

“Probably. But if someone else was behind it, who's to say Catfish also isn't wired for sound? He was in Ocala at the same time.”

“Then which do you think, a sting or a rip-off?”

Gaspar stared off in thought.

“What are you looking at?” asked the goon. He turned around and saw a beach painting on the wall.

“Nothing,” said Gaspar, shaking his head to snap him back into the moment. “I could be over-thinking all of this. It might be a legitimate milk run. If he shows up with the whole count, we know it's not a sting because no police agency ever approves that kind of buy money. And if it's a rip-off, the money will never enter the room. That'll be the sign which way this thing's sliding.”

“And if the money shows?”

“We might rip them off.”

“But you said it was against your code to double-cross. Your honor was life.”

“Except in self-defense,” said Gaspar. “The objective is survival.”

“So the plan is? . . .”

“Start by conducting a regular deal.” Gaspar checked his Rolex. Three o'clock. “I haven't made up my mind yet.”

Another goon parted the curtains again. “Here they come.”

“Everyone get ready,” said Gaspar. “But put them at ease. If they're planning something, I want them to think we have our guard down . . .”

FORT LAUDERDALE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

I
ncoming jets cleared I-95 at ninety-second intervals. Horns honked curbside. Luggage and beeping electric carts rolled through terminals. A PA announcement:
“Please report any suspicious or unusual behavior . . . Do not accept bags . . .”

Two people sprinted at top speed for the ticket counter. Patrick McDougall collapsed out of breath against the desk. “We want to go home!”

The chipper attendant wore a sky-blue bonnet and a robotic smile. The smile quickly faded. “Good God, what happened to your face?”

“I picked up a jellyfish,” said Pat. “But it was already peeling.”

“We're from Wisconsin,” said Bar.

“We'd like to go back there now, please.”

The attendant's fingers addressed a keyboard. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes, but it's not till Sunday,” said Pat.

“We want to leave now,” said Bar. “The name's McDougall, connecting to Madison.”

“No problem. I can change that for you.” Fingers began typing. “But you understand there will be a rebooking fee.”

“We'll pay it.”

“Here we go,” said the attendant. “I have something tomorrow morning.”

“Nothing today?”

“All flights are booked. Earliest is seven
A.M.
”

“We'll take it!”

More typing. “I'll just need to see your driver's licenses.”

Bar went to grab hers, then remembered. “I left my purse in the room because we went to the beach.”

The attendant nodded. “As long as you have it when you board. Meanwhile, I can process the tickets under your husband's name.” Fingers continued clattering on the keyboard. “Sir, may I have your license?”

“Uh, I don't have it,” said Pat. “My wallet was stolen at the beach yesterday. And I buried my other wallet but the shoe got moved.”

Typing stopped. “You don't have a driver's license?”

“But I buy tickets online all the time without a license.”

“No,” said the attendant. “I mean without a license or other official photo ID, the Federal Aviation Administration won't let you on any airplane in America. Especially at our current heightened level of security.”

Pat turned to his wife and smacked the side of his head. “That's right. It was the whole reason for the backup wallet.” He faced the desk again. “But then I'm stuck in Florida. This has to have come up before. Isn't there some kind of emergency procedure?”

“There is one thing.” The woman got out a paper and pen. “If you can reach your home state's motor vehicle department and give them this number . . .” She handed Pat the scrap of paper. “That's our central security office in Omaha. They'll ask to be faxed certain documents and other verifications, then they'll forward a special numbered certificate back to us to get you through security.”

“Great. Thanks,” said Pat. “And could you do me a small favor and look up motor vehicles in Wisconsin?”

“Don't have full Internet.” She glanced across the terminal. “Information booth should be able to help.”

Soon Pat had the number and was on his cell. And soon he was transferred, again and again, by people who never heard of the procedure. Finally, a bureaucratic accident: “Yes, I can help you with that. What is your name?”

“Oh, thank you! It's Patrick McDougall, Madison.”

“Patrick
M.
McDougall?”

“That's right.”

“I'm afraid I can't honor your request.”

“Why?” asked Pat.

“Your license has been suspended. So we can't issue any travel waivers.”

“Suspended?”

“There's a hold on your file pending the receipt of clarifying documents from South Florida.”

“Documents?”

“We received an alert from the education department that you were driving while smoking crack and PCP.”

“Because that's all a big communication mistake,” said Pat. “It shouldn't have said driving. And no PCP, just crack.”

“You were only smoking crack? I'll make a note in your file.”

“No, that's not what I meant. Don't touch anything.”

“I'm sorry, it's already in the system. Can I help you with anything else today.”

Pat hung up.

The phone rang. Patrick answered it.

“I want my fucking cocaine—”

Pat hung up.

“Is something the matter?” asked the attendant. “You don't look too well.”

Pat just stared.

The receptionist smiled again and looked down at her computer screen. “I do have some good news for you. Your luggage is now in Nashville.”

“Nashville?” said Bar.

The woman nodded. “It just landed.”

“How is that good news?”

“Because it's moving closer,” said the attendant. “In fact, it should be here this afternoon.”